Open Season

A new level of hell known as H&M hit Hong Kong like a storm last weekend. I knew better than to set foot anywhere near the store within the first three months of its debut. But with a friend in desperate need for new work clothes, I sucked it in and ventured into Hell&More last night.

Hong Kongers are suckers for queues. The longer the queue, the stronger the desire to be in it. It doesn't matter what they get in the end, the mentality being that it must be something good if so many people are already lining up for it. While I stood at the end of the line just a few steps away from the escalator that leads up to Soho, I couldn't help but wonder how those old ladies feel every time they line up for those ironically named "fortune rice".

Much like the bouncers at Volar, the crew of security guards outside of H&M had too much authority. There were at least seven guards along the queue, and so many more inside the store. No idling was allowed in the queue, so I was practically pushed into the store even though my friend hadn't yet arrived. No idling was allowed anywhere near the entrance of the store either, so I was stuck peeking at the doorway from afar behind racks of Madonna's designs. And of course, when my friend finally arrived, I couldn't just bring her in. "Your names aren't on the guest list," the guards might as well have said. Their excuse was that their supervisor was watching and they couldn't just let people in. After a lot of reasoning on my side and not listening on theirs, they finally turned their heads away and my friend arrived safely in Hell&More.

Like a mass burial site for poor-quality clothing, the mediocre work of various designers lied around tables, racks and the floor. Shoppers in autopilot mode dug through the piles like maggots in a lettuce. The ruins were too grave for the staff to recover in time; I'd imagine them working through to midnight every night trying to put everything back where they belong after the store closes. Some of the racks were placed so close together that with the crowds in there create giant lab mazes. We're the lab mice, of course. I found myself feeling claustrophobic trying to get out of the white shirts corner. All but one staff refused to offer any help to shoppers, who are told to find their own sizes, with hints on which corner of the store the item was originally placed. It was like a very challenging treasure hunt, only without a treasure map or a treasure.

What I witnessed last night was a phenomenon, one much more remarkable than the clothes that are currently being hunted by half of Hong Kong. There were basic tank tops I could've gotten for mixing and matching purposes; I could've even picked out a few accessories if I wanted. But there was nothing I wanted more than to get the hell out of there. My friend made the wise decision to try on the clothes right there in front of the first mirror she saw, instead of waiting for a fitting room. But there was no avoiding the 30min queue to ring up her kill.